


peace and quiet

by the_ruined_earth_sagelord



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Humor, M/M, Marvel Universe, Mentions of Spider-man, Rated for Deadpool's Language, Spideypool - Freeform, also the spideypool is implied an even referenced at first but it comes later, and other stuff yikes, i always hate tagging things humor bc who am i to say it's funny?, lots of gore yikes deadpool, the ocs are literally throw away characters for deadpool to kill lmao, you might not laugh and then i'll just look stupid lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ruined_earth_sagelord/pseuds/the_ruined_earth_sagelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{You really shouldn't let me write summaries, I mean /you're/ the author here-oh...oh, hello there. Yikes, you must be The Reader. I knowww, cool, right? I have fanfiction now too? I must be really influential in social media! Or this crappy writer just wanted to play around with fourth wall breaks. If you don't like 'em, you might not want to read this because whew! we've /exhausted/ the fourth wall. It's like I had myself a good ass beating right up on this really thin wall separating my apartment from your apartment, and you can hear every grunt and moan I make as my face is squished up against my new wallpaper, and you start wondering if my ass is getting beat or if I'm /taking/ it up the ass, but you're too embarrassed to ask the next morning when we wave at each other as we get our papers left out in the hallway by the landlord.}</p><p>Oh my god, please /do not/ write my summaries ever again.</p><p>{You asked.}</p><p>And I regret it.</p><p> </p><p>*** A SpideyPool story for all you sinners</p>
            </blockquote>





	peace and quiet

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to Mor, my fav Marvel sinner. I'm so sorry for the language and the imagery y i k e s
> 
> {oohh, Mor is the really cute one, right?}
> 
> All my friends are cute.
> 
> {yeah, but like, he's the cute nerd of the group, right? like Petey's a cute nerd too.}
> 
> I swear to god Deadpool...

 

 

 

Deadpool stood at the edge of the bridge, staring out over the crisscrossing highway sections below him. His mask crinkled as he sniffed the air, the smell of gasoline and burning rubber and garbage trucks wafting up to him. But underneath the stink of the roads he could just detect the hint of

 

_what the hell are you writing man? you make me sound like I’m trying to get high on diaper trash and semi diesel! jesus fuck…_

 

Wade, you can’t interrupt the writer when they’re trying to

 

_yeah, sure, whatever, kid. how_ old _are you? like, 17?_

 

I’m twenty-one you jackass.

 

_whoa easy there, tiger. rawr. ladies and gentlemen and non-gendered or other non-binary-conforming-folk, I interrupt this regularly scheduled program to clear some shit up._

_I. DO. NOT. SNIFF. DIESEL._

 

Wade

 

_uh-uh-uh-uh! wait your turn, you little snitch. as I was saying, diesel is_ very _bad for your health, and I would_ never _,_ ever _in a_ million _years, suggest you kids sniff it too. no bueno._

 

Wade, I said gasoline. Just regular gasoline. Not diesel. _You_ brought diesel up. Not me…

 

_ah. so I did. well. this is incredibly awkward…_

 

Can I just get back to writing your shitty story so you can

 

_hey, hey, I already got my origin story, and it was pretty fucking awesome. why don’t you go back to writing about your gay volleyball kids and listening to Damien Rice, that pretty motherfucker IamNOTgay._

 

No one said you were, Wade.

 

_(I totally am though lmao, don’t tell the writer kid shh.)_

 

Wade, this isn’t another origin story. I actually really, really loved your movie, even though Ajax

 

_Francis, yes_

 

was a total dickwad, and you were like, too good for this world. Alright, you were kinda a dick too, but only sometimes, and you were a little justified anyway, especially when you head-butted that giant woman what’s-her-name

 

_Angel, yeah. she and I could have had some fun if she’d taken the damn matches out of her mouth. I mean come on, make room for the super penis!_

 

…Ew, god, I didn’t need to hear that…

 

_you mean_ see _that, kid. you’re typing, not talking._

 

Whatever. Listen, aren’t you supposed to be breaking the fourth wall and talking to the reader? Not me?

 

_it’s not that easy! I don’t have a camera to look at like in The Office, or any comic panels to peek around! you were the one who decided to write this shitty story_

 

Hey!

 

_so you’ve got to figure out how I speak to the reader!_

 

But…you’re talking right now…and the reader can see that…but _I’m_ in charge of how… Jesus _fuck,_ your wall breaks are confusing.

 

_well, how about you let me worry about the wall breaks, and you go back to writing your little origin story, or what you_ think _is an origin story._

 

I _told_ you, it’s not an origin story. It’s…uh…

 

_yes? what is it?_

 

Um. It’s fanfiction…

 

_oh. ohhhh. you mean like the brony people and their My Little Pony craze?_

 

Oh my god _no_. Fuck no. Eugh. Please don’t compare me to _that_.

 

_well, what is it then? I never knew I had_ fanfiction _! I’ve gotta start invading this stuff too, oh boy._

 

It’s, well, about you and Spiderman and how

 

_OHMYGOD! YOU GOT LIL’ SPIDEY-KID TO CAMEO IN THIS?!_

 

It’s not a cameo, Wade, it’s about you two and how you fall in

 

_oh god, is my breath okay? quick, smooth the back of my suit out, there can’t be_ any _wrinkles when that kid shows up! I want to look good when he gets here!_

 

Wade

 

_shouldn’t you give me flowers or something? come on, come on, gimme some flowers! I don’t want to meet him empty-handed! that’s_ so _not_ _classy._

 

Wade, please

 

_okay, breath: check. suit: crimped. ass: damn fine. flowers…hurry up, ya little shit. flowers, please!_

 

Oh my god, fine.

 

Deadpool tucked his MP3 player into his belt, head bobbing to the music. The traffic below zipped past, sending currents of air buffeting up towards him, ruffling the flowers clutched nervously in his left hand. They were beautiful—red roses and white lilies, as well as small yellow daffodils. Dark purple indigos wreathed light blue tulips, and some grass clippings littered the edge of the plastic wrapping around the bouquet. Deadpool sniffed at the floral arrangement, and for a moment, the scent of cars and pavement and smog disappeared. It was brief, but it was enough.

 

Happy?

 

_wow. that was gay. and MP3? come on, I’m not_ that _old. and what’s with the grass?_

 

I read somewhere that grass means homosexual love. And you’re literally prancing around getting all excited for Spiderman

 

_SPIDERMAN!_

 

just like that. So I figured you’d appreciate the extra help from the flowers.

 

_help with what you sneaky little shit?_

 

Well, like I’ve been _trying_ to tell you, this is a fanfic, and what happens a lot in, uh, fanfics, is that you and someone I write you with, um, you know…

 

_no, I don’t. we what? steal falafel together from some poor sap working a stall? like that douchebag from the first Christopher Nolan Batman movie? ohh, sorry, wrong universe…_

 

No, you guys, you know… _do the do_.

 

_oh… OHHH. OH SHIT. ARE YOU SETTING ME UP WITH SPIDEY-BOY??_

 

No, I’m not your matchmaker, I’m just writing this for a friend who wanted

 

_YOU’RE TOTALLY SETTING ME UP WITH MY FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER-DORK!! YOU’RE THE BEST FANFICTION WRITER EVER!_

 

No, don’t say that, it’ll look like _I_ typed that and that I’m just being cocky, and that’s not cool.

 

_who fuckin cares, dude, you’re setting me up with mah boy crush!_

 

Did you just admit that you’re gay for Spiderman?

 

_shut up, I never said that, get back to your stupid fanfic._

 

_and make me look buff for god’s sake. please?_

 

***

[White box.]

{yellow box.}

 

{and why do _we_ have to introduce ourselves?}

[So the reader can enjoy the authenticity of the Deadpool comics in written form.]

{well a minute ago they were using movie-form Deadpool where he talks directly to the audience. why’d _we_ have to get dragged into this?}

[Just shut up, you’re annoying.]

{ooh, temper, temper. yes, _sir_.}

“Will you both shut up?” Deadpool muttered. “The author promised to set us up with Spidey, and I am _not_ letting you guys ruin that chance for me.”

[That was never set in stone.]

{ohh, are we following the theory that Mr. White Box is the author talking to Deadpool?}

[ _Please_ shut up.]

“Shut up!”

Deadpool sighed. Fucking boxes. Thinking they could ruin his perfectly good chance at getting some Spidey-action. The goddamned movie didn’t mention Spiderman once, and that was an atrocity. Come on, Marvel. Step up your game, you’re better than that.

{no they’re not.}

[Like you could do any better.]

{hey, hey, I know Deadpool better than anyone!}

“You _are_ Deadpool, idiots,” Deadpool said. “Where are we anyway?” He looked around, the night air heavy with the scent of the city.

{talking about smelly stuff again.}

[Almost like the author wants to create an image for the reader. Weird, huh?]

Skyscrapers tore at the dark blanket of sky above, lights twinkling against the blackness like manmade stars. Lonely cars pattered along the empty streets; the only people up at this hour were the lost, the hollow, the tired, the sad, the drunk, the crazy, the broken, the scared.

{what does that make us?}

“All of them at once,” Deadpool sighed.

{you’re drunk? _you’ve been holding out on us?_ }

He scratched at his ass. _Damn_ that burrito had come back with a vengeance. “I’m never eating triple sauce black bean and papaya burritos again,” he groaned. “Ugh, that stuff moves right through ya. I think I soiled myself at both ends.”

[Gross.]

{dude, that’s fucking nasty.}

Deadpool stretched his arms over his head, letting out a slow groan as he arched his back.

{good, good, make us seem sexy to the reader.}

His suit pulled tight against his body as he stretched, his muscles almost bursting out of the fabric.

{okay, now you’ve gone and overdone it. I know we asked to be buff, but, really?}

[Nothing can please you, huh?]

{asshole.}

[Dick.]

“Dick,” Deadpool murmured to himself. “I’m gonna get some dick tonight.” He chanted quietly under his breath as he skipped along the wet sidewalk. The heat of a short summer rain was still heavy in the air, and the ground still fresh and wet. “I’m gonna get some dick tonight,” he hummed again. “Im gonna get some Spidey-dick.”

{if you don’t fuck up.}

“Oh, we ain’t gonna fuck anything up,” Deadpool muttered. “That ass is mine tonight, you better fucking believe it.”

{nice Naruto reference.}

[Did you really just—]

“I am _not_ an anime nerd,” Deadpool hissed, cutting off the white box. “I watched it _once_ , okay? Alright…fine, maybe a couple times… Goddammit, _why didn’t Sasuke and Naruto get fucking married, they had the most dynamic relationship in the whole fucking series._ ”

[Thank you!!]

{not an anime nerd my left ass cheek.}

[You don’t have a left ass cheek.]

{oh my god! you’re right!}

Deadpool rolled his eyes under his mask. A car washed past him, its wheels slicking against the wet road. It was a satisfying sound, the _whoosh_ of rubber against something wet.

{was…was that a sex joke? damn… _I_ didn’t even see that one coming.}

The merc glanced up, watching the sky above him. He could see dark towers and empty skyscrapers, all their offices closed down for the night. Only janitors and overworked people who didn’t want to go back to their annoying spouses would still be in the buildings this late at night.

{that was a very inclusive, gender-neutral sentence. nice.}

[Shut up. Let the author write.]

{mean!}

Deadpool sighed again. His skin was itching under his mask, and he desperately wanted to take it off, let the cool night air wash over his face.

But, when you’re in the middle of a job, you can’t risk being seen.

{ohh, now we finally have some background.}

[Yes, we’re on a job right now. Shut up, Deadpool’s thinking.]

{of course he is, what the hell do you think _we_ are?}

Two targets, one needed alive, the other could be killed. Not usually his style, keeping people alive. But they were paying good money, so he wasn’t going to say no to the Italian _cartello_. They’d promised him a pizza too. Nice.

“Frank Pushkin,” Deadpool hummed, scratching at his ass again. “Of course his name is fucking Frank, like we don’t have enough evil Francises in the world.”

[Maybe it’s fate.]

{maybe…it’s Maybelline.}

“I swear to fucking God…”

He pulled at his mask nervously. Even though no one was out this late at night on the streets, he still caught himself double-checking to make sure the mask was on. When you look like a mushroom who’s stool sample came out green, you tend to be a little self-conscious.

{hey, I think you look gorgeous.}

[Yeah, you’re not a mushroom’s stool sample.]

“Can you guys leave my thoughts alone for, like, three seconds,” Deadpool hissed. “I was trying to be melodramatic for the sake of the later irony when Spiderman pulls of my mask and sees my hideously scarred face but is still able to love me and accept me and then we bang.”

[Wow. Sounds like you’ve just about got the plot figured out, huh?]

{do we even need to see us killing these Russian mobsters? can’t we just skip ahead to when we meet Spiderman and fuck his brains out? or when he fucks _our_ brains out? I’m game to try bottoming if you guys are…}

“Shut up, we can’t skip ahead,” Deadpool whispered. He quickly lowered himself behind a garbage can on the curb. He’d spotted some familiar figures ahead. “Everything is important, and we’re supposed to do everything in order. That way we build _suspense_ to when Spidey comes in, and _I_ totally fuck _his_ brains in, cuz ain’t no way I’m gonna have him put his dick in my hole after I just ate three of those fucking burritos. It’s a literal shit storm down there, and I’m not gonna spew my mushroom stool all over—”

[ _Okay_ , I don’t think the readers need to think about that particular image.]

{that’s fucked up, dude.}

“Exactly,” Deadpool agreed. He pulled his katanas from their sheaths on his back. “About as fucked up as this.”

He darted out from behind the trashcan, sprinting at maximum effort towards the approaching figures. They were talking in loud, slurred voices, passing a bottle between them, laughing and hollering into the drunken night. Deadpool came at them like a wraith of red blood and black shadow, blades dancing at the tips of his fingers. The swords were an extension of himself {god, I hate that cliché.} and he felt every nerve fire with excitement as he leapt through the air, spinning like a whirlwind just as the drunk on the right lifted the bottle to his mouth. Deadpool’s blade caught the bottle, cutting clean through its neck. And then the man’s neck too. Bottle head and man-shaped head went flying off, blood spurting like a fountain from the sudden gaping throat.

His partner froze in horror, staring at the stump where his friend’s head had been. He opened his mouth, already turning to flee.

Before he could scream or even move, Deadpool landed in front of him, hand slamming up to cover the man’s mouth. He’d pulled his mask up just a bit, to show off a little of that gorgeous stool sample skin, and he grinned at the man, his scarred face creasing and peeling, his teeth gritted in triumph.

“Caught you,” he sang. “You’ve been _extra_ naughty today, haven’t you, Robaire?”

The man shook his head under Deadpool’s hand, his eyes wide and panicking. “ _Mmfph! Mm, mmm! Mmphh!”_

Deadpool put a hand to his ear, his mouth still pulled up in his terrifying grin. “What’s that? You want me to do the same thing to you that I did to your buddy here? Well, I don’t know… We warned the readers people would die, and as much as I wanna deliver on that promise, I kinda need you for the plot to move forward…”

{kill him.}

[No, dumbass.]

Robaire mumbled into Deadpool’s glove some more, tears leaking pitifully from his eyes. “ _Mmeeze, mm-mm Mmemph-oom, mmon’m ‘ilm mm._ ”

{alright, we get it, his voice is muffled, can we lay off the ‘mm’s’?}

Deadpool lifted his hand off the other man’s mouth. He gasped, choking for air.

{mm, just how I like ‘em.}

[Now who’s using the ‘mm’s’?]

“Where’s Pincushion, testicle-breath?” Deadpool growled, lowering his mask back over his face.

“Please,” the man whimpered. “Please, Mr. D-Deadpool, don’t kill me.”

{aww, he’s begging. give him a treat, Deadpool!}

[No, bad Deadpool.]

“Good Deadpool,” Deadpool giggled, and he snapped Robaire’s arm at the elbow.

Robaire screamed, and his body jerked and writhed in pain. Deadpool grabbed his collar, holding him up by his shirt.

{ooh, there’s the buff muscles in action.}

“I’m not gonna ask again, Robaire,” Deadpool said in a low voice. He swatted the man’s broken arm; it swung uselessly at his side. “Where’s your boss? Mr. Bowling Pin-King and I have some business to settle.”

“M-M-Mr. Pushkin is not in town, Mr. Deadpool,” Robaire said weakly.

Deadpool pulled him closer to his mask.

“What?”

{he’s not here?}

[Oh, goddammit, Deadpool.]

Robaire blinked slowly. “Er, right, yeah… My boss, not here.” He swallowed thickly. “He skipped town last night. Went the bye-bye.”

Deadpool threw Robaire to the ground, and the man landed on his broken arm. He yelped in pain again. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” Deadpool roared. He stalked over to the wall of the building they were in front of and started pounding his head against the stone.

“Son” bang {ow} “of” bang { _ow_ } “a” bang {dammit Deadpool} “ _bitch_.”

[You done now?]

“Yeah, I’m good,” Deadpool muttered to the stone wall. He turned to Robaire. “You’re sure Pushypants skipped town? He’s gone?”

Robaire nodded enthusiastically. “ _Ja, ja._ Was gone when I came back to base yesterday. Sure. Definitely.”

{he’s totally lying, right?}

[Definitely.]

“Absolutely,” Deadpool purred. He skipped over to Robaire. He grabbed the man’s other arm, making Robaire whimper and beg quietly under his breath.

“Shh, shh, baby,” Deadpool whispered. “I know it hurts now, but I’ll make you feel so good, don’t worry.”

{shit, wrong line}

“Shh, shh, baby,” Deadpool whispered. “I know it hurts now, but I’ll make it hurt even more if you don’t fucking tell me where your boss really is you lying piece of toe-jam shit.”

{nice recovery}

“Please, Mr. Deadpool, I not want trouble.”

{has his broken English been consistent this whole time?}

[Probably the author trying to make it more obvious. It’s best not to explain stuff to the reader. Shh, listen, he’s saying something about his boss.]

“What was that you said?” Deadpool asked, frustrated. “I couldn’t hear you over the damn boxes.”

“I said Pushkin at the _Devil’s Tongue_ , new club. He owns. He’s there now.”

Deadpool picked himself up. “Well, well, Francy Pantsy’s got a new crib, huh?” He smirked under his mask. “Sounds like someone oughtta throw him a welcome home party.”

{ _nice_ one liner.}

[Eh, we’ve had better.]

{are we gonna do a cut to this club? I’m kinda bored with this scene with Robby and the Headless Drunk.}

 

***

{oh good, we did a cut. what happens to Robaire?}

“He wanders off to take care of his arm and hopefully plants his Russian ass in a more wholesome career than selling his soul to this Pushkin fuckface,” Deadpool said. “Like, I don’t know, selling his Russian ass instead. Sex work is a damn honest job wouldn’t you say?”

{eh, I prefer our hand.}

[Oh my god…]

“Well, _I’d_ prefer some Spidey-ass tonight,” Deadpool sighed. “So can we hurry this up?”

{we should really just skip all this and move ahead to when you’re with Spiderman. everyone knows you’re gonna beat this Pinhead guy anyway.}

[We can’t just skip ahead, we have to—]

“No, I like that idea,” Deadpool murmured. “I know I said everything’s important, but damn it, I’m horny.”

[Please control yourself, ugh.]

“What! I am!” Deadpool peeks up. “What do you guys think? You want me to just skip ahead too, don’t you? You want some quality SpideyPool, don’t deny it.”

{who’s he talking to?}

[No idea, but the tense just changed. He’s probably addressing the reader. Man, even I’m confused now.]

Deadpool puts his hands on his hips. “I changed tense because it’s all been in past tense so far, so now we’re in present tense, bringing the time to right now. You gotta know this stuff when you’re writing.”

[Since when do _you_ know this stuff?]

“Since we’ll be skipping ahead to when I fuck my favorite Spidey-boy,” Deadpool was saying. “See? Past perfect tense. I’m already phasing outta this time, and we’ll probably slide into a cut scene—”

 

***

“—and right into the future,” Deadpool said.

Spiderman looked up at him. Even with the mask on, he was able to give the merc a sarcastic glance. “What about the future?”

“Nothing, baby,” Deadpool chimed. He grabbed Spiderman around the waist. “Oh god, I’ve been waiting for 3,263 words to get to you.”

Spiderman struggled under Deadpool’s strong grip. “Wait, easy moron. What are you talking about? Lemme go.”

Deadpool snuggled his head into Spiderman’s chest “Nuh-uh, I caught myself a Spider and I ain’t letting go!”

{oh god this is way too mushy. skip ahead to when we’re fucking.}

 

***

“Spidey…I’m so sorry…that’s really embarrassing. That’s…that’s never happened to me before…”

The younger man slowly sat up. “That’s, um, it’s okay… It was kinda anticlimactic, being so quick…but…

{what the hell don’t show them this, they don’t need to know this!! _back up, back UP!!_ }

[There really is no pleasing you, is there?]

{ _just back the fuck up!!_ }

 

***

Deadpool stared up at a glowing neon sign, pink and gaudy, reading _The Devil’s Tongue_.

{oh fucking hell, we’re back _here_.}

[We really should just stick to the script.]

“God fucking damn it,” Deadpool muttered under his breath. He smacked his hand against his head. Then again. And again. “ _God_ _fucking_ _damn_ _it_. You had to go and almost fuck everything up didn’t you, you piece of shit…”

{hey!}

[He’s not talking about you…]

{oh… hey, Deadpool, it’s okay. you didn’t ruin it. well, not yet.}

[Not helping.]

“Shut the hell up,” Deadpool growled.

The street was silent.

“Finally,” he murmured. He studied the sign. _Devil’s Tongue._ Crude.

“I’ll give ya a devil’s tongue you piece of shit _kartell_ ,” Deadpool sneered. Crap, that was German, not Russian. He turned to the door. “No bouncer, must be an ‘invite-only’ kinda thing.”

He pulled two guns from their holsters, took aim, and blasted the doorknob and hinges clear off the small wooden door. The door collapsed inward, flying off the threshold and slamming into the hallway. Deadpool spun the guns on his fingers, then smoothly holstered them.

“Invite: check,” he said.

He picked his way through the shattered remains of the door, humming to himself. He danced over the smoking hinges on the floor, shaking his ass a little.

“I know, it’s a great ass.”

He hopped over the door lying in the middle of the hall, its timbers creaking and cracked. “Hmm.” He put a finger to the chin of his mask. “If I was a three hundred pound sack of hairy feet named Pincushion, where would I…” He caught sight of movement at the end of the dark hall, the glint of a knife. “Uh oh,” he whispered. “Looks like I’m in trouble with the baddies. Any help, guys?”

The hallway was silent, save for the creak of Deadpool’s boot on the wood of the door as he tried stepping over it back towards the doorway.

“Oh, real mature, boxes,” he muttered. “Right when I actually want your input.” He pulled out one of his katanas. He crouched, getting low to the ground. “Hm…right… _there_!”

He hurled the katana like a throwing star, sending it spinning over the ground. The steel skimmed over the dark wood, humming through the air, landing blade-first into the wooden beam support at the other end of the hallway.

There was also a hand pinned to the beam, blood shooting from the palm, fingers spasming against the metal of the blade sprouting from the ruined hand like a deadly flower. Ooh, poetic. The man the hand was attached to screamed in pain, his arm jerking uselessly against the sword, as if trying to free himself from the blade’s bite. Oohh, more poetry with the alliteration. Nice, nice.

“Strike!” Deadpool whispered to himself. He skipped through the hallway, jumping over the broken bits of the door, landing in a crouch next to the would-be-ambusher. At the base of the wooden beam the guy’s arm was currently pinned to, a knife was buried in the floorboards up to the hilt. Most likely dropped when Deadpool landed that totally sick spinning blade-of-death move.

“Maybe you can tell me where Francine Frensky Pinhat the Lesser is?” Deadpool asked, voice sweet as honey. He snapped his fist into the man’s chin in one sharp blow.

The man murmured something unintelligible. His head lolled to one side.

“Oop, no, no, shh, hey, wake up now, sleepyhead. You’ve gotta tell me where your boss is inside this dingy little shithole. Then you can sleep.”

“…boss…inside…” the man moaned, and not the sexy kind of moan either. More like a froth-at-the-mouth, eyes rolled up in the back of the head, bordering on the edge of consciousness kind of moan. Deadpool smacked the man’s cheek softly. Then he crushed his fingers around the goon’s throat.

“Okay, very good. Now where specifically? Behind the bar? In a back room? On the stage in a sexy little number making sweet love to a pole covered in glitter?”

The man coughed against Deadpool’s fingers. He choked for breath, veins popping in his neck and face. He squirmed, thrashed, but Deadpool held him in place, his fingers slowly but surely tightening.

{hey…maybe that’s enough…}

Deadpool’s hand squeezed harder around the man’s throat, his fingertips pressing against the vertebrae in the back of the neck.

[Deadpool…that’s enough. You’ll kill him.]

{what that one said…}

The man’s face turned red, then purple. His eyes bulged.

{you need him to tell you where Pushkin is, right? Jesus, Deadpool don’t kill the poor bastard.}

“Pushkin!” Deadpool cried, his fingers slipping from the man’s throat. “ _That’s_ his name.” He stood, dusting off his pants. “Crikey, I’d almost forgotten what it was.” He glanced down at the man, hanging from his pinned hand. “You lucky little shit. Sorry, I guess I got a lil’ bit carried away! And just a _teensy_ bit turned on by my own badass-ness. And _you_ two, thanks for showing up right when I _don’t_ need you. Amateurs.”

{bitch.}

[Cock.]

“Cock, right.” Deadpool slapped his hands together, rubbing them playfully. “And that won’t be the _only_ thing I’ll be rubbing tonight.”

{I thought the plan was that you _wouldn’t_ have to rub one out? remember? Spideybreath?}

“Goddammit, you’re right! All for the sake of a dirty joke, and I make myself look bad. Damn it.”

[Maybe we can get back to the mission? Progress the plot a little? And focus less on terrible dick jokes at our own expense?]

{I thought it was pretty clever.}

[Well you’re an idiot.]

{But you still love me.}

[Of course.]

“You done?” Deadpool pulled the sword out of the man’s hand, letting the goon fall to the ground with a groan into a puddle of his own blood that was gathering rather quickly. As he stepped over him, he swept down with the blade and easily took off the man’s head.

[Jesus, Deadpool…]

{should I punt it?}

“Glad to see you little fuckers are back in full swing,” Deadpool muttered wryly. “And here I was thinking I’d gotten rid of you for a little while.”

{when do you ever ‘think’?}

[Don’t be mean.]

Deadpool punted the head.

After watching it go _splat_ on the opposite wall, he turned his attention to the black velvet curtain at the end of the hall. Smoke drifted in coils at the bottom of the curtain, and enough flashing strobe lights to give you a seizure bounced off the hardwood floor under the veil. Music boomed and pounded under Deadpool’s feet.

“So this is where the party’s at,” he said excitedly. “They better have some good chimichangas in there or I’m out.”

[You need to crash this party, remember? _Then_ chimichangas.]

{right, right, thanks, white box.}

[Np.]

“Did you just type in texting format?” Deadpool asked. He tucked his sword back into its sheath and approached the curtain.

[Maybe.]

{what a nerd.}

[You admitted to watching anime.]

{that’s a filthy, filthy lie.}

“Anime’s a filthy, filthy lifestyle,” Deadpool murmured. He poked the curtain. Stared at it. Seemed fine. No booby traps. Heh…booby traps…

{remember Vanessa? now _there’s_ some booby traps I wouldn’t mind getting caught in.}

[Focus, please?]

{right, sorry.}

“Give me a break, like the merc with a mouth _isn’t_ gonna make a booby trap joke when the author uses that particular term,” Deadpool said. He pulled out a gun and poked the curtain again with its barrel. “Seems all clear.” He took a deep breath. _Maximum effort_.

He yanked the curtain aside and leaped into the room, gun held up and ready to fire—

The room was empty.

A spinning disco ball hung from the ceiling, reflecting strobe lights all around the small room. Heavy, thick drapes covered the walls. Smoke and fog-machine mist permeated the air, heady and moist in Deadpool’s mouth.

{that’s so fucking gay, oh my god. _heady? moist?_ Jesus…}

[Those are perfectly acceptable adjectives for club fog, you prick.]

Music played softly in the background, but Deadpool could tell there was louder music coming from below him. “So this is like an antechamber,” he said.

{look at us, pulling out the big words.}

[If you consider that a big word, I want to know where you went to school.]

{same place you did, ya hardboiled testicle.}

“Guys, there are kids reading this.” Deadpool holstered his gun, straightening with a sigh. At the back of the room, beneath one of the large drapes, another door was slightly ajar.

{well, which is it? door? or jar?}

[I swear to fucking God.]

Deadpool crept to the door, peeking through. A narrow staircase washed in a sickly UV light led to a lower level, the bass pounding on the steps, making the handrail drilled into the wall shake in its holdings. Deadpool groaned. “How big _is_ this fucking club?”

{not bigger than our—}

[If you say penis, I will castrate you.]

{—brains. yikes. someone’s moody.}

“Alright, can it on the dick jokes for a sec,” Deadpool said, waving his hand dismissively at the air in front of him. “I need to think.”

[We can skip the think montage where we come up with a brilliant plan and execute it perfectly. how about we just go to where we meet Pushkin. The guy’s a creep, no doubt. You’ll see. Total dickwad. No one would want to be friends with him.]

 

***

“Deadpool, mine old friend!”

{awkward.}

[Shut up. All part of the plan. He doesn’t know the Italian sent us.]

“Yeah, can you imagine if he knew the Italian was paying us to kill him?” Deadpool laughed to himself as he stalked through the club’s ground floor, ignoring the servers and dancers who tried catering to him.

“What’s that, Deadpool?” Pushkin asked. “Something about Italian?”

Deadpool tilted his head innocently, his mask covering his shit-eating grin. “Just complaining to myself that you don’t have enough Italian dancers in here. Your loss.”

{why do they call it that? ‘shit-eating’ grin? that’s gross. like, where did that originate? who honestly thought that was a good combination of words?}

Frank Pushkin, a large, corpulent man covered in purple furs and green jewels and rings on every finger, chortled and wheezed, slapping his knee. “Russian pretty enough,” he said. “Russian girls good, very good girls. Keep quiet when I say.” He scratched his jowls, his beady eyes boring into one of the dancers on the stage, following her movements. “And they make noise when I say, too, _ja_?” He howled with laughter again.

{ _oh_ he’s a crusty fuck.}

[Yikes…]

“Francis,” Deadpool said, raising his voice over the pounding music and the rumble of voices from the impressive crowd gathered on the dance floor. “Can I call you Francis? You remind me of a guy I know. Knew.”

Pushkin’s eyes narrowed. He shrugged his heavy shoulders like a bear.

“We’re not very close friends, Francis,” Deadpool said. He shrugged too. “In fact, I don’t like you at all. You’re a nasty shit stain on a senile donkey’s adult diaper. But you pay good. So I kept you around.”

Deadpool leaned in, bringing his masked mouth close to the mobster’s ear. “But now the Italians are paying better.”

{ _damn_ , okay _that_ was good! shit, son, _that’s_ a dramatic one-liner!}

[Shush, don’t ruin it.]

Pushkin’s small eyes flicked back and forth in confusion for a moment, until understanding dawned on him. His eyes widened. He stared up at Deadpool, an emotionless black and red mask glaring back at him.

The mobster lurched back, lunging away from the mercenary. A choked scream escaped his greasy lips, and two bodyguards materialized from behind him, leaping at Deadpool, guns already blazing. Two, three, six shots rang out. Shouting and screams from the dance floor. People ducked, craned their necks to see what was happening, fled to the stairs to get out. Deadpool’s blood flew everywhere. He collapsed, bullet holes torn into his arms and torso. One in his head. Blood and scraps of flesh pooled around his body, his limbs splayed out at skewed angles.

The bodyguards crept up to the body, guns leveled at it. The smaller man nodded to the other goon, and the big guy grunted back. Then he emptied his rounds into the motionless body.

They waited. The music had cut out, and all the dancers had hurried off the stages to hide in the back rooms. Pushkin peeked out from behind the table he’d thrown himself behind.

“Is he dead?” he rasped.

“Hardly,” Deadpool chirped, and he sprang upright, drawing his own guns.

{as if.}

[Did they honestly think that would work? Who are these idiots?]

{ask the author.}

“Let's go, big daddy,” Deadpool said, shooting the larger goon in the kneecap. He came down with a grunt. Deadpool flipped his gun in the air, drew a katana, and sliced clean through the big guy’s gut, spilling his innards onto the dance floor. He threw the blade up next, caught the gun as it came back down, ducked under the other bodyguard as the guy came roaring at him, and popped a bullet in the big lug’s brain, spraying gray matter all over the ceiling. He flipped his gun back into its holster, caught the katana out of the air, sheathed it, and continued ambling along towards Frank Pushkin.

“Wait,” the boss howled. “I pay you double the Italian! Triple! Wait, Pool!”

{aww, maybe we can let this heap of scrotum hairs go? he’s kinda pathetic.}

“The job was to kill Pushkin, then find his supplier and bring him in to the Italians,” Deadpool said, shrugging. “Once I get all that done maybe I’ll _finally_ get to see some Spidey-action. Hey! Pinhead!”

Pushkin cowered behind his table barrier. “Please,” his voice whimpered. “I promise, I stay out of Italian turf. I never go in again.”

Deadpool sighed, shaking his head. “Ugh, this is ridiculous,” he muttered. “No wonder Batman doesn’t like dealing with you mob freaks.” He raised his voice. “Listen back-hair-McGee, you and the Italian are _both_ a couple of low-life drug dealers who sell to kids on playgrounds, so as far as I’m concerned, you can both suck each other off in a ditch outside the Vegas desert before slowly dying of dehydration.”

{nasty…}

“But! Big-butts-bossman Pacino wants your head mounted on his wall, and he’s paying me a _shit_ ton of cash for that, and, well frankly, Francis? Momma needs a new crib.” Deadpool put his hands on his hips. “See, Al is fucking useless at Ikea furniture—don’t tell her I said that—and I figured a new place with _already assembled furniture_ would be a big step up for her. And me. Mostly me. Since the biggest piece of furniture I got right now, Pus-head, is the dildo for those special nights when Al wins Monopoly, that cheating, blind, old-ass lady…” Deadpool shrugged again, his mask creasing as he smiled under it. “So! Let’s get to it! Tell me where your supplier is hiding his crusty asshole. Then I’ll kill you and go drag him down to the docks. Easy as cake.”

“Francis isn’t the one you want,” a voice behind him suddenly said, all dramatic and shit. Deadpool’s shoulders slumped and he groaned, turning. “What _now_ —oh… _Oh._ ” He glanced over his shoulder. “Frank… _nice catch_.”

A woman stood in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by Deadpool’s own blood and bits of flesh blown off by the earlier shootout. She clutched a gun in her hands, aimed at Deadpool’s head. Long, black hair framed her pale face in the flashing strobe lights. Her eyes were dark and fierce, as cold as a predator’s. The gun didn’t shake in her hands, as if she was perfectly accustomed to threatening immortal mercenaries with firearms.

Deadpool put his hands up in surrender. “I gotta say,” he said in a smooth voice. “I’m a little turned on right now.”

[When aren’t you turned on?]

{details, details.}

“Francis isn’t the one you want,” the woman repeated, her voice husky and angry. “I am. _I’m_ the head of the East side.”

Deadpool stared at her.

“What! You think because I am a woman—”

“No! No, no, you just… I was told to kill this sorry sack of testosterone behind me, and now it turns out it’s his _girlfriend_? I mean come on, can’t you guys give me a break and stop it with all the on-again, off-again relationships that turn out to be shallow and last for, like, three months, and then you have your lil’ gatherings where you appoint new heads of the Families, and then _I_ have to keep track of who’s who, and shit bitch you know how hard it is to follow your family trees when every Thursday poor Raulo is getting popped off and on the second Tuesday of each month you promote someone new to be the friggin head of the whole East side…” Deadpool scratched at his mask anxiously. “Where the fuck was I going with this?” he spat.

{you were gonna kill her?}

[You were frustrated because she showed up out of nowhere? Kind of like a plot twist?]

“Right,” Deadpool said. “Should I just…”

_BANG._

“Oops,” Deadpool muttered, blowing the smoke from the barrel of his gun. The woman fell down, dead. “There, mob boss taken care of. Fuck.” He kicked a table over. “Shit, shit, shit.” He turned to the table, behind which Pushkin still cowered, whimpering like a small puppy.

{that’s too cute for this guy. seriously, he’s one ugly fucker.}

[And you’re America’s Next Top Model.]

“I fucking could be,” Deadpool hissed under his breath as he stalked to the table, flipping it over Pushkin’s cringing body. He grabbed Deadpool’s leg’s, grimy fingers rubbing on the suit.

“Please,” Pushkin pleaded, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Deadpool reached down and grabbed Pushkin’s fingers, breaking them in a single swipe, peeling them off his suit. He ignored the man’s broken cries as he lifted him up by his wrists.

“You hid behind a table while I killed your girlfriend,” Deadpool said in a low voice. “Do you know how fucked up that is?”

{pretty fucked.}

[Not now…]

{oh…sorry}

“Please,” the mobster whispered again. He looked into the eyeholes of Deadpool’s mask, his own beady eyes pleading and begging, tears leaking from them. “I don’t want to die.”

“Yeah, and I bet your girl didn’t want to either,” Deadpool snarled. He brought his face up close to Pushkin’s. He was holding the man by his wrists in one hand, so he brought the other up to the edge of his mask. “There’s one thing I want you to see before you kick the bucket, you rotten pile of shit…” His fingers curled under the mask, pulling back the fabric. “I want you to see the face that’s gonna chew your eyes out in every level of hell there is.”

Deadpool ripped off his mask all the way. In the dim lighting of the club, with the smoke and flashing strobe lights casting weird shadows all over the walls, with the scent of his own blood mixed with sweat and bile and inner organs on the floor, Deadpool’s scarred face took on a whole new silhouette. His peeling skin was like embers flaking from a burning pit, his thin lips pulled back over his teeth were like a shark’s mouth, and his pale eyes hung like two milky orbs, floating right in front of Pushkin’s face. It was the face of a demon, horrible and haunting, leering at him from the depths of an inferno. Pushkin screamed even louder when he saw it.

“ _Boo_ ,” Deadpool hissed, grinning terribly. Then he plunged his sword into Pushkin’s chest, cracking the sternum open and spilling blood all over himself and the mobster. Deadpool cackled to himself, throwing Pushkin off the katana. The mobster was choking on his own blood, his body jerking uncontrollably. He heaved, his breath wheezing. He reached a feeble arm towards Deadpool, but it dropped uselessly to the ground.

Deadpool turned away, already cleaning the blood from his sword.

{he’s gonna die slowly, huh?}

[He deserves it.]

{fuck yeah he does.}

Deadpool picked his way around the pile of bodies, stepping over the woman he’d shot. He stared at her body for a moment. Then he moved on.

{shit! the supplier!}

Deadpool smacked a fist to the side of his head. “Ah, fuck, that’s right! Bad Deadpool!”

{hey, half the job is still done. good Deadpool.}

[We’re well over the original word limit guys…]

{So?}

Deadpool shambled over to the stairs. He still clutched his mask in his hand. “It means we’re stopping here,” he murmured. He picked up one foot that felt like lead and placed it on the bottom step of the stairway leading out of the club. “We’re finishing the story right here.”

[For now. There are these things called chapters.]

“Shut the fuck up,” Deadpool said. He scratched absentmindedly at his face. His skin was burning. He wanted to rip it all off, like _it_ was the mask. He hauled himself up the stairs. His body felt heavy, and he didn’t want to think anymore. Of course, they wouldn’t leave him alone.

{I mean, when you think in little yellow boxes, your thoughts aren’t exactly private.}

[Maybe just leave him alone for a bit?]

{…}

[You’re so difficult.]

Deadpool reached the top of the stairs, lumbered through the anteroom, stepped over the body of the first bodyguard, and slipped out of the hallway into the clear night air, cool and open and fresh.

It burned his skin.

“I’m comin’, Spidey-boy,” Deadpool murmured. “Maybe I can make up for feeling like a piece of shit…”

{by fucking him? yeah right…}

[What do you really want, Deadpool?]

Deadpool looked up at the sky. It was still dark out, but the dawning rays of sunlight could just be seen reflecting on the bottom of clouds over the city skyline. Morning had come.

Deadpool cracked a scarred smile, his eyes glistening in the gray light of day.

“A little peace and quiet.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *bows*
> 
> tumblr: legendarysagehalfblood.tumblr.com
> 
> don't expect much marvel stuff on my tumblr, but if you want to come ask me about this or tell me how i might fix any characterization, stop on by lmao


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